It started after waking up from that long sleep — or could it more accurately be called a coma — after tangling with the bear in March, but it hasn't gone away. She feels strangely out of joint with her body, and after a week or so it's clear it isn't just the new vitality and strength that had come after the dream of the bear. She feels... disconnected, somehow. Like sometimes she's floating just outside her own body, unable to really feel the things she's touching.
And then, one morning, she wakes up and finds that not feeling like herself has taken a terrible and all too literal turn.
It starts with stretching under the sheets, before she's even opened her eyes: something feels... weird. Her shirt is all rucked up and tight around her chest in a way it almost never is unless she's been tossing and turning all night, and her underwear feels weirdly constrictive. She slides a hand under the sheet to wrangle her clothes back into place, and instantly freezes as her eyes snap open, horrified.
It's not just different. Things — two very important things that she likes a lot — are just gone, and something... else... has taken up unexpected residence. ]
What the fu—
[ The yelp starts and stops almost as suddenly. That's not her voice. It's too low, feels too strange in her throat, and — most importantly — it's too masculine. Wynonna scrambles out of bed, leaving behind a muddled mess of sheets, and runs to the full-length mirror in the corner of the bathroom, too-flat chest heaving with shock and adrenaline. She skids to a halt, and the person — the man — in the reflection matches her movements exactly.
Slightly mussed brown hair, a little lighter and much shorter than her own chestnut. Two horrified pale eyes, so close to the color she's used to seeing in the mirror that it's honestly a worse shock to find them not quite right than if they'd been brighter or darker. A chin scruffy with stubble. A —
She glances down, then back up again as rapidly as possible. Yeah.
In the mirror, John Irving stares back at her with an expression she's never seen on his face. Not because she's never seen him look horrified, or shocked, but because it's her expression stamped onto his features and oh god this is the worst morning she's ever had. And here she'd thought nothing could beat Ibiza. ]
Crap, [ she says, in John's smooth English voice.
A little while later, she slams out of the cabin, moving awkwardly in a body that's way taller, heavier, and more muscled than her own. It's not like she has clothes that really fit him, but she does her best. He might hate how tight her flannel pajama pants fit on his hips and ass and legs, but it's better than no pants, right?
Maybe no one else is up yet. Maybe she can get to the cabin without anyone seeing her... him.
Maybe the Darkwalker will show up and eat her and she won't have to worry about it anymore. That's starting to sound like the best possible alternative, if she's honest. ]
— John Irving (cw: dissociation, flagrant abuse of italics)
It started after waking up from that long sleep — or could it more accurately be called a coma — after tangling with the bear in March, but it hasn't gone away. She feels strangely out of joint with her body, and after a week or so it's clear it isn't just the new vitality and strength that had come after the dream of the bear. She feels... disconnected, somehow. Like sometimes she's floating just outside her own body, unable to really feel the things she's touching.
And then, one morning, she wakes up and finds that not feeling like herself has taken a terrible and all too literal turn.
It starts with stretching under the sheets, before she's even opened her eyes: something feels... weird. Her shirt is all rucked up and tight around her chest in a way it almost never is unless she's been tossing and turning all night, and her underwear feels weirdly constrictive. She slides a hand under the sheet to wrangle her clothes back into place, and instantly freezes as her eyes snap open, horrified.
It's not just different. Things — two very important things that she likes a lot — are just gone, and something... else... has taken up unexpected residence. ]
What the fu—
[ The yelp starts and stops almost as suddenly. That's not her voice. It's too low, feels too strange in her throat, and — most importantly — it's too masculine. Wynonna scrambles out of bed, leaving behind a muddled mess of sheets, and runs to the full-length mirror in the corner of the bathroom, too-flat chest heaving with shock and adrenaline. She skids to a halt, and the person — the man — in the reflection matches her movements exactly.
Slightly mussed brown hair, a little lighter and much shorter than her own chestnut. Two horrified pale eyes, so close to the color she's used to seeing in the mirror that it's honestly a worse shock to find them not quite right than if they'd been brighter or darker. A chin scruffy with stubble. A —
She glances down, then back up again as rapidly as possible. Yeah.
In the mirror, John Irving stares back at her with an expression she's never seen on his face. Not because she's never seen him look horrified, or shocked, but because it's her expression stamped onto his features and oh god this is the worst morning she's ever had. And here she'd thought nothing could beat Ibiza. ]
Crap, [ she says, in John's smooth English voice.
A little while later, she slams out of the cabin, moving awkwardly in a body that's way taller, heavier, and more muscled than her own. It's not like she has clothes that really fit him, but she does her best. He might hate how tight her flannel pajama pants fit on his hips and ass and legs, but it's better than no pants, right?
Maybe no one else is up yet. Maybe she can get to the cabin without anyone seeing her... him.
Maybe the Darkwalker will show up and eat her and she won't have to worry about it anymore. That's starting to sound like the best possible alternative, if she's honest. ]